Displaced in Mullingar:The ATM is to the modern town what the well was to the ancient village, writes Michael Harding, who enjoys an afternoon of valuable exchanges

I used to think that expensive running shoes were only for spoiled teenagers, but apparently not. The good ones have a kind of jelly inside the soles, which makes them springy. So the girl in the shop told me.

Are you getting them for the gym, or running on the road, she asked.

Well I didn't see myself ever running on an open road. And on the other hand the gym is very expensive.

I don't know where I'll use them yet, I said.

Well, she said, I suppose you could try the canal.

What do you mean by that, I wondered.

There's a pathway along the canal, she explained. You could jog along there.

I needed the runners so that I could de-tox and begin a rigorous regime of daily exercise, now that Christmas was over.

I paid her a mere €120, and off I went, pleased as punch with my first bargain from the January sales. There's a terrific elation comes with spending large amounts of money.

I have never measured how many people use a single ATM in one hour, and I haven't yet counted all the machines available in Mullingar, on the streets, in the shops, and in the arcades, but it has dawned on me that the ATM is to the modern town what the well was to the ancient village.

Nobody talks to strangers at ATMs, but it's strangely social. You can read a life in the cut of the clothes, the style of operation, the amount extracted, or indeed the terrible refusal of the machine, when the request exceeds the funds available.

There was a country woman in front of me and she was having bother operating the AIB machine.

I'm only in town for the day, she said, and I can't get the money out. And I have all me shopping to do. I come from Castlepollard. Did ye ever hear tell of Castlepollard?

I said there was a limit to what you can take out of an ATM.

How much, she wondered.

I said, I think it's €200.

She said, you're not a Mullingar man.

I said no.

She looked disappointed.

She said she needed €700. And she looked at me as if she needed to spend it

by lunchtime.

What will I do now, she wanted to know, as if I was in some way responsible for her dilemma.

I was still thinking about her as I passed a statue of the Virgin Mary outside the train station. It struck me that the ATM is a kind of secular grotto. A locus of blessings, for those with good accounts.

After a wobbly trot along the canal, I stopped into a shop to get a bag of brown sugar and a bag of white sugar. And someone behind me said, that's a lot of sugar. I agreed, though I allowed the sugar in my arms to remain an enigma.

There was an old man ahead of us. Wisps of grey hair oiled over the top of his bald head. His hands constantly shaking.

Now, he said, to the girl behind the counter, could you give me 20 Major.

She wasn't good at the English.

They're fags, he explained.

Cigarettes, someone in the queue added.

She got the Major.

I want a receipt, he said.

She gave him the receipt. Then from his handkerchief he carefully spilled a pile of small coins onto the counter.

Give me the €3.70 packet of either Shag or Drum.

She came back with the Drum. It's €3.65, she said.

That'll do, he said. And a receipt for that too, he added.

There were four behind him now, but nobody was in a hurry. Even the girl behind the counter was mesmerised.

And three boxes of matches.

And another packet of Shag.

She did up all his receipts with the reverence of a daughter helping an elderly father.

Perhaps in her country too, she was familiar with old people who live in nursing homes and whose requests and material needs are small but vital.

That's it, he declared. And he was off, out the door and down the street. Then he vanished around a corner. Back to his mates with the messages. To a mug of tea maybe, and a roll of tobacco, before night closed in.

I doubt if he bothers with ATMs. Or if he ever spent €120 on shoes with jelly in the soles.